


This Sublime Future

by crimsondust, PieceOfCait



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Backstory, Canon Era, Gen, infant mortality mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24000736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsondust/pseuds/crimsondust, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait
Summary: Feuilly comes to Paris for the first time and makes and finds a family around him
Comments: 40
Kudos: 31
Collections: Les Mis Big Bang: Quarantine Edition, Recs from the Watchalong Room





	1. Prologue

**June 1832  
**

Feuilly scratches out the words on the wall with an iron nail, carefully, deliberately, taking his time over each letter to emphasise how much he wants these words to live on through other times, other Revolutions. 'Vivent,' he pauses. He remembers the book he has kept close to his heart for so long, a fairytale where things can be brought back to life with words, 'Les Peuples,' he finishes. _Vivent Les Peuples_. Their movement will grow, Feuilly believes that with an unwavering hope. 

He surveys his surroundings with a calm that rushes into his veins after the anger has subsided over the fact that they have been left high and dry by Lafitte, Lafayette and others who promised support. Let those be my last words if they are to be. Vivent les Peuples. Peoples. All peoples concerns are mine. 

He thinks of Prouvaire and Bahorel. There will be poetry and throwing up pavements again. 

And one day there will be birds chirping, there will be spring. 

He thinks of all his fallen friends, of Father Mabeuf with his books. 

We were here, we refused to be silent, we fought on this barricade. 

Long Live the peoples. 


	2. Chapter 2

Feuilly has sailor’s blood in him, and had his father not died three months before his birth, it is very probable that he might have followed in his footsteps. As it is, at the age of eighteen months, his mother travels with him in her arms from Marseilles to Grenoble, where she has reasonable expectations of some work because of her contacts, but the journey takes a toll on her health. A few days after she arrives at Grenoble, she complains of a dreadful cough and is soon dead. The foundling hospital never finds his birth certificate: he is called Feuilly, because he is always surrounded by papers with childish drawings, though some suggest that it might have been his family name somewhere in the 15th Century, which is not unusual. There is an old battered picture book with words that has become illegible- his favourite of the few possessions that he inherits from his mother. He stares at the woodcut illustrations for hours, copying them out in untrained lines. 

Feuilly has a knack for drawings and a love of travelling. Sometimes when he is crying while falling asleep, he dreams of running off to the sea to search for his father and mother who he has been told had died, which meant passed on to God, though no one would say where God lives. He is never unhappy for long, all things considered, for he has younger children who often seek out comfort in his company and friendship especially if they have been recently separated from one of their parents. He comforts them as best as he can and wipes away their tears- he has seen far too many babies and young children die in his time to form close friendships; the inspector of the foundling hospitals is always surprised to see him each year, he ruffles his hair as he ticks off his name. There is one other boy who has been with Feuilly the longest: Petit Jean-Baptiste, slight for his age and prone to wetting his bed, to whom Feuilly feels much brotherly affection. He frequently protects the younger boy from the sharp tongue of the Mother in charge of the orphans. 

The foundling hospital suffers from a lack of teachers- such that by the time he leaves, Feuilly has only acquired the bare rudiments of French alphabets and can neither read or make sentences. The children all speak patois among themselves, to the chagrin of the sole schoolmaster who does not hesitate in using his cane to enforce Abbe Gregoire’s ideas of French language.

The foundling hospital sends out several children each year to apprentice in nearby farms or with artisans in the neighbourhood when they reach the age of around twelve or thirteen years. Feuilly on reaching what the foundling hospital considers a reasonable approximation of that age, though he is several months younger, is handed over to his new master, who promises to feed him and teach him to set letters using a typeface. He leaves the foundling hospital without shedding many tears. His affectionate nature had always sorrowed at the lack of love he received there. 

He keeps the apprenticeship at the Grenoble Printshop for nearly a year, waking up day after day to set letters, fill ink and help with other sundry duties around the atelier, all before even the sun has had a chance to raise its head. His child’s heart longs to see the insides of a school where he knows children his age learn how to read what he is learning how to print. His love of drawing also grows with each passing day. He spends endless hours on his days off, sketching portraits of his mother from the descriptions he had heard of her. The drawings are flecked with soft tears. 

It had so occurred that a fan maker’s atelier opened during this time in Grenoble and the owner, noticing Feuilly’s love of drawing, had apprenticed him to copy out drawings on brisé fans, persuading the Master printer to whom Feuilly was still employed, that the young child would make a better fanpainter than a printer. Jean-Fracois Martin had taken a liking to the earnest, hardworking child. His family had been artisans or printers since the 16th Century and he prided himself on finding and nurturing new talent as well as keeping an eye on the fashions. 

Jeanne-Marie, the master printer’s wife, teaches Feuilly how to draw flowers and animals on the delicate ribs of the fans and how to weave lace with his small, delicate fingers. Having lost her own children at an early age, she had all but adopted the poor young orphan. The women painters in the atelier often fuss over him during their breaks: answering his questions, correcting his spelling and helping him with some phrases in the local dialect as they had been taught. He never stops missing his parents, but ever since he was a child, Feuilly has found a family around him. 

Five years later, when Feuilly is eighteen, Jean-Francois dies and his business is sold off to pay his debts. It has been too sudden to process: pneumonia and a fever for three days, and Jean-Francois breathes his last. Feuilly visits the church for the first time after Jean-Francois’s death, feeling awed at the immensity of the building, and aware of his smallness, his bony hands, his thin form that aches with cold. He does not know the words of the prayer, he supposes he must have been taught it once, he closes his eyes, clasps his hands together, allows the emotions of the past week to flood in, and weeps silently. 

A little money comes to Feuilly for his five years of apprenticeship. It is enough to pay his way to Paris, where he hopes to find another apprenticeship at an atelier in Rue Bourg-l’Abbe, owned by Charles Martin, a cousin of Jean-Francois. 


	3. Chapter 3

**1824**

Feuilly is thin, malnourished, and at the end of his savings when he arrives in Paris after nearly twelve days of travelling and, exhausted, finds a place in a boarding house with other migrants. The city seems grand to his gaze, even though he has dreamt for some time of being in Paris. It is also too dirty and cold in many ways he does not expect- and in some ways that he does. On the road he has met several workers and migrants heading to Paris and joins them for part of the journey, singing songs to keep up each other’s spirits. 

He arrives at the atelier the next morning, to see some emigres from Poland and Italy as well as local women artisans working on stitching and engraving delicate fans. He colours in some of the scenes that are brought to him or copies some drawings on paper which are then etched on the fan. The assembling of the sticks was done in Ouise. 

He feels removed from the city full of hustle and bustle and feels overwhelmed and alone, aware of how much his thin form does not fit into any of the crevices of Paris. He tries not to feel an outsider but he knows very little French when he arrives. Still the thought consoles him that Paris will reveal itself slowly to him, layer by layer, and he might fall in love with her. He is always looking for excuses to love people and things around him.

The owner of the atelier is frequently absent and often brusque, asking Feuilly to repeat the job he has already completed, several times, till he is satisfied. Sometimes Feuilly wipes off tears with his callused, paint flecked fingers. 

It is much easier to find friends among the women in his atelier, who often have jokes to share as well as advice. They promptly nickname him the Grenobloise mouse (for his brown hair that sometimes sticks out through his painter’s cap, Grenoble dialect and timid appearance when he first arrives), though most of the time they call him Albert- it is a name which stuck to him when he was working at the atelier in Grenoble and Feuilly does not mind. The apprenticeship affords him money for rent, some morsels of food and free time to study and educate himself. 

-

Feuilly ends up sharing lodgings with two art students after some weeks of living in crowded boarding houses. He finds their artist’s lifestyle incredibly difficult to keep up with. Grantaire and Bourget wake up late in the morning and leave for the studio in the afternoon. They also complain that students like them who have only enrolled in the past year, have to play the roles of rapin and attend to menial chores for the more experienced students. The nights are dedicated to the two roaming Parisian cafes, having intense artistic disputes and searching for inspiration. 

Feuilly has managed to avoid anything beyond formal introductions with them, since he rises early and studies for several hours. In the evenings after his work at the atelier he practices his art diligently. It has taken him two months to realise that one of the art students is called Grantaire since he signs his still life assignments with a flourishing R. 

Grantaire’s paintings are often incomplete and the painter often missing from the atelier. His friend Bourget is engrossed in the study of anatomy, which he deems to be of supreme importance since it will lead to his magnum opus and his name being written in the Academie. He is therefore sketching figures in the morgue and making copies of paintings. 

Grantaire and Feuilly occasionally talk about art. Feuilly is interested in Jacques Louis-David’s Death of Marat and his painting of The Tennis Court Oath since he has read several books about the members of the committee of public safety. Grantaire can talk about neoclassical art and pepper it with classical Greek references when he is in the mood and their discussions are lively. Grantaire also has several points to make about the Napoleon crossing the Alps painting, none of which can be repeated in polite company, causing Feuilly to laugh hysterically. Grantaire makes fun of the Napoleon propaganda paintings of Antoine Gros’ in a similar fashion, something he takes pleasure in doing, because of how much his hand hurts after several reproductions of still life that the Master painter makes his students work on. Grantaire seems to have grown cold to neoclassicism and its grand gestures, though he has not yet warmed up to Gericault and to Romanticism, claiming to be unimpressed by the Raft of Medusa. 

Grantaire refuses to commit to any politics, choosing to offer irreverence when it is needed instead. Feuilly himself is cautious and prudent in matters of politics during that first year and thinks it wise to not reveal too much when he is still a stranger to Paris and her ways. Grantaire takes those moments when Feuilly is carried away in a passionate discussion on art or history to hold Feuilly’s thin hands in his and squeeze them. It delights him to hear Feuilly laugh, his laughter fills the room with a soft, mellifluous sound, his whole body moving with the music of it. If Grantaire is not careful, he supposes he might be falling a little in love. It is difficult not to be in love with Feuilly. 

Feuilly has had an invitation to smoke hashish by Grantaire to stimulate ideas one evening, an invitation he feels slightly sad about declining. Grantaire is one of those characters who are not easily dissuaded from conversation or from friendship. His face is entirely too persuasive, because it carries a mournful look of a stray cat looking for cuddles. 

‘Ah, Feuilly, my beloved companion, my artistic brother, my source of comfort…I have had several epiphanies about art, Parbleu!’ 

Feuilly shifts uncomfortably, praise always makes him self conscious and he tries his best to deflect it. He notices that one of Grantaire’s sleeves is torn, his hair is unkempt, his eyes unfocused and bleary, and he walks as if he has been bruised all over- he surmises that Grantaire has spent a third or fourth night around the town. 

‘...Everything that is useful is ugly, it moves me not. Everything that is beautiful is useless and attracts me. Art being beautiful has therefore no utility. Even more if you listen to the judges of art who are so keen to apply their rulers and cut here and there, till only a hollow form is remaining, devoid of anything except utility and form. A mass production of Grantaires is what will satisfy them. I propose to you a simple concept, mechanize art, have no more artists. What’s more, cover your eyes when passing by sculptures, which is the only way to please some critics. 

Morality is a fine word against which art cannot win! Can you hang morality in galleries? I have a good mind to produce only that which titillates and gives pleasure. I tell you there is no utility to life and no utility to Michaelangelo’s frescoes except I would rather have the Sistine Chapel frescoes for their beauty, they move me to tears. Overthrow utility and morality completely, I have determined to cut ties with these two ladies. Why should I not dine at cafes in company whenever I wish and stretch and make bearable this thing called life. Why should I deny myself small pleasures? Ergo, I have a good mind not to spend one more day in Gros’ atelier with a bowl of fruit.’ 

Grantaire, it emerges to Feuilly after a few conversations, has ceased being a pupil at the atelier for over a week. Now that he has had a letter from his family, expressing their natural disappointment at such a choice and asking him to look for an alternative career, he has taken up drinking and carousing all night even more seriously. 

His ambitions consist of finding a cafe for dinner to drink away his troubles. He picks up a hat and an umbrella and looks at Feuilly with a dramatic expression. Amused, Feuilly closes his book and allows himself to be led by Grantaire’s enthusiasm and love of fine cuisine.

They make their way along Rue du Faubourg Saint Antoine, turn onto Place des Vosges and stroll through Rue Mondetour until they alight on a cafe. 

‘Hullo, we are going to lay siege to Corinth and its wine. Byron,’ Grantaire explains and Feuilly shakes his head. He has not heard of Byron or the siege of Corinth.

‘By Odin's beard! Perhaps that is just as well. I only develop an appetite for poetry after wine is consumed, and a few libations to Dionysious have been made. All poetry is like wine, one longs for it but it leaves one in a stupor afterwards, or perhaps I have only read poetry under the influence of opium for that was the only way to digest it. Poetry does not move me to tears as much as a well cooked carp, and you Feuilly my friend, are about to taste one of the finest in all of Paris.’ 

Feuilly gives a small laugh. He is pleasantly surprised to see so many workers gathered here, some discussing politics in hushed tones. He squeezes Grantaire’s shoulder in appreciation and thanks him warmly. 

Grantaire meanwhile, is ordering a large portion of ham and cheese as well as heroically making his way through an entire carafe of wine placed on the table. True to form he is also occupied with talking about how women are ignoring him and how time cuts away the wings of love because Irma Boissy did not think him impossible some years ago, homely yes, but with the impossible attached to it he feels himself cruelly maligned. He grabs Matelote by the waist to attract her attention, and asks if she thinks him impossibly homely. 

Feuilly, who has only gingerly sipped his wine, is attracted by the workers talking amongst themselves at a nearby table and irritated at Grantaire's behaviour. 

‘I apologize if my friend is bothering you,’ Feuilly explains to Matelote _,_ who looks taken aback at first and then smiles at him. 

‘Your friend has drunk too much wine. We are used to customers like that.’ Matelote shrugs as she smiles. 

‘You should not have to be,’ his tone is gentle and friendly. 

_'_ Ah, Monsieur, if I was rich I would not have to work here. As it is I have no education and a large family to support in Provence. I thank you Monsieur, but unless you can radically improve my living situation, I am and will have to be used to such customers and their ways.'

-

Feuilly becomes pensive and remains so for the rest of the night. At work he asks one of his coworkers if she knows of a workers’ society. 

Madame Wójcik stops embroidering lace as she nods, ‘My husband has joined The Mutual Aid Society, run by Jacques Bédé. He is in the chair turning trade and helps wood turners in their disputes against their masters but he also helps workers who do not have any compagnonages to belong to. As long as you are a worker and pay your monthly dues, you can join the meetings and have a voice.’

Feuilly becomes interested when she talks about compagnons and Tours. His ears catch the words Mother and Father and become hopeful - but they are inn houses for the compagnons on their Tours. He had not turned many of his thoughts towards workers supporting each other, but little by little he becomes more involved in the meetings of the Mutual Aid Society. He helps his neighbour Louise Arnaud solve a dispute and assists Matelote in her demand for a higher wage for her and Gibelotte, which Father Hucheloup grants. Matelote is full of gratitude the next time he visits Corinthe. 

Since he is always away when the art students are home and the art students are away when he is reading or asleep, Feuilly and Grantaire drift apart as friends. 

A few months later they are evicted by their landlord who objects to the groups of workers and assorted art students that have become frequent visitors to the building. It does not count in their favour that Grantaire has broken a window twice and a chair while boxing and Feuilly has come close to being arrested on some slight suspicions. 

Feuilly has several friends in the neighbourhood when he departs, a seamstress Jeanne Duverny, points out some decent lodgings. He had made sure that her family would be supported during the strike when her husband was out of work by pooling money from other workers. The strike leads to the intensifying of disputes between masters and workers in several trades in Paris. It is at this moment that some of the members of the Mutual Aid Society ask him to address one of the meetings for the first time. It is an honour Feuilly feels barely capable of, but he takes a deep breath and works on a speech. He knows what he wants to talk about: how the masters exploit workers and how it is in all their interests to be united in the demand for better wages and shorter hours; the speech almost writes itself. Feuilly reads it by the dim candlelight before falling asleep.

During his speech, Feuilly proposes the idea of workers using their tools to tear through the moth-eaten cloth of monarchy. Not everyone is welcoming of the idea, though some of his Polish and German friends lend their support. Some, like Alfred Duverne, a cook, wonder whether the Republicanism Feuilly talks about, may end up leaving the workers- the very people it wants to champion, behind. ‘How can we support our families from prison?’ someone asks. The debates continue while the disputes between the masters and the journeymen become more violent, leading to Bédé and a few others being arrested and sentenced to two years in Sainte-Pélagie. 


	4. Chapter 4

**1825**

In the meantime Feuilly moves to a lodging in the Latin Quarter, which he again shares with some other students, or so he believes. His interactions with Grantaire and Bourget have convinced Feuilly that art students make less than ideal roommates. He is therefore pleased to find that Jean Prouvaire is a student of medicine and Jean-Hercle Bahorel of law. On paper at least. Or so everyone says. Everyone also claims that they have heard legends of Bahorel antagonising his professors but that they have never seen him attend law school and he is therefore taken to be a cryptid. 

Jean Prouvaire rarely attends medical school, choosing to spend his time at salons reading poetry, to which he invites Feuilly, who enjoys talking to Wiśniewski, a young Polish Romantic poet who moves Feuilly to tears with his poetry on losing a place to call home. 

What strikes Feuilly most about Prouvaire is his bird-like appearance. He enters a room with papers stuffed in his pockets with the translation of Faust he was working on, or poetry, takes his place on the sofa, delivers a message and then flies out. He never stays in a single place for Feuilly to figure him out. Prouvaire delights in being an enigma, changing names regularly to publish poetry and blushing violently if anyone praises his poems. 

Jean-Hercle Bahorel is somewhat easier to understand; although there is a movement and fluidity within him too, Feuilly sees with his artist’s eyes, but that fluidity results in him being at ease with the violence of the riots, and finding a certain rhythm in throwing up paving stones. Bahorel is gleeful, unapologetic and restless, he wants to change the entire system- and if it takes a paving stone at a time, well he has all the time in the world to give to the decoration of the streets. Feuilly studies under his tutelage and proves to be an admirable student- learning the ins and outs of building barricades and using pistols. Many times he has also ended up walking back with Bahorel to their lodgings after his friend is released from his brief stints at Sainte-Pélagie, the familiar loud voice and the Lyonnais pleasant to his ears. 

Poetry eludes him, he does not know what to make of it, though he admires Prouvaire’s grasp on languages and wishes he could read Modern Greek and Polish with as much ease as Prouvaire quotes from Dante and Isiah. 

Feuilly stretches his arms and stifles a yawn, there is a drawing for Le Bonnet Rouge which needs to be finished. Le Bonnet Rouge is a newspaper that Bahorel, his mistress and Prouvaire have started along with other Romantics and political radicals. 

Prouvaire in turn takes Feuilly’s hands in his and runs his fingers lightly on his palms. There is a paint mark on his forefinger that would not rub, there is red paint on his hand from a drawing he was working on earlier, the paint resembles dried blood and makes Prouvaire shudder. The roughness of Feuilly’s fingers thrills Prouvaire, whose own hands are much softer.

Prouvaire puts Feuilly’s hands close to his lips. ‘I feel like a fortune teller,’ he says as he traces the lines, ‘But you do not need your fortune told, valiant Feuilly, you who have always changed the course of your fortune. I, on the other hand, am burdened as the Greek chorus with the melancholy that comes with the knowledge of the truth, before the play is acted out.’ 

‘And what truth do you speak, O wise chorus?’

‘That we will be inconvenienced by the arrival of Bahorel at this moment.’ Prouvaire says with a wicked grin. This is true, for Bahorel does indeed return, drenched to the bone in the rain but with a satisfied look that indicates that his work is at a conclusion. It has started raining heavily outside, which explains the prophecy.

Feuilly throws a pillow at Prouvaire which the bird-like bard ducks to avoid. The target finds Bahorel instead, who yells in delight and starts a fight. He is amused that they have taken his suggestion of using pillows in a battle seriously. Their room is covered with feathers in a short time. 

At his atelier, Feuilly occupies himself with the fan that he is working on, his delicate brushstrokes have acquired a finesse. He now earns nearly three francs as a journeyman (leading to a saving of ten francs some months which delights Feuilly) and is given more responsibility for painting, as his craft and his confidence grows with each passing day. (No longer a timid mouse, Flora Edmound teases him during a lunch break at work). They have successfully negotiated for higher wages for everyone in their atelier after months of campaigning for them. He is speaking to Polish, Italian and Greek immigrants regularly through his co-workers and has acquired a smattering of the languages in the process. His ambitions of exploring the sea and other countries have settled down into a deep interest in learning about nations and their struggles, and he can be found with his nose buried in a history book, trying to make sense of the successions, wars and treaties. 

-

‘Why do you have a parrot?’ Feuilly asks as he returns one evening from his atelier. 

Bahorel is still hobbling along the room on crutches due to a recent injury in a riot and is ordered not to move about too much, an order which he is fulfilling to some extent, even if he is not always gracious about it. Prouvaire is sprawled on the Oriental rug with his copy of Arabian Nights and frowns at the interruption in the middle of the story he was reading.

‘I do not know if I can claim the affections of a bird, can anyone charm a creature even as small as a butterfly into a net? Does not every living creature feel and have a soul? Does not a butterfly rail against its captivity in a jar despite our attempts to capture fleeting beauty, as we all rail against the flesh prisons which encase us and remind us of our mortality? Then why should I claim a bird?’ Prouvaire speaks with great feeling, turning his head briefly towards the artist. 

Bahorel throws his head back and laughs, ‘Hermes belongs to my Royalist brother who entrusted him to me for safekeeping for a few weeks. I am endeavouring to teach him as many revolutionary slogans as possible while I am confined to bed rest. He also cusses delightfully and I feel like a proud parent.’ 

‘Naturally,’ Prouvaire frowns at the parrot who is circling the room squawking in delight, ‘I have endeavoured to teach him a little Greek, which he does not appreciate. He bit me.’

Prouvaire indicates that he is determined to move past the slights suffered at the hands of the uncultured bird (You are an ass, Jean Prouvaire, it is clearly the beak, how would a parrot have hands, Bahorel exclaims), is once again regaling Bahorel with stories of ghouls and djinns and expresses his wish of travelling to Constantinople to walk around the bazaars there which he is convinced would be delighted to sell him magical ornaments from Scheherezade’s stories. 

Bahorel teases him about it and Prouvaire sulks for a while on the rug, not answering to the name of Jean. After an hour of silence he informs Bahorel that he would like to change his name and is considering many options. Jean is too plain to suit him. 

The parrot, not content to be ignored for so long squawks, ‘Vive la Revolution.’ and nestles in Bahorel’s hair, causing Feuilly to giggle and reflect on the nature of families. He has not supposed that any of Bahorel’s brothers would take to being Royalists. 

Bahorel laughs at the look on Feuilly’s face, ‘We argue on everything since he took up trying to find a Royalist lineage for the family as a hobby. My family is and has been peasants for centuries, we are quite proud of it. My father had to pay a fine for flying the tricolours of the revolutionary government. Alas I was born too late to be given a suitable revolutionary name, but that has not stopped my mother from carrying out her own intentions. There is very little that can stop my mother once she has made up her mind to do something.’ 

He picks up the letter from his mother which has just arrived in the morning:

 _‘Dearest son called La Liberte ou La Morte,’_ Bahorel chuckles _, ‘_ _Your sister , Choufleur, has won a prize in school for a lovely poem which the whole family is very proud of and requested hearing at dinner. You must write to her and tell her so as well, she will love hearing that from her brother who enjoys poetry. Your two roosters: Archibald and Thibault are doing well, though they always look for you whenever I feed them along with the other hens in the morning. The rest of the animals are in good cheer, cannot say the same about family, since everyone is at home for a few days and it is chaos. I console myself that they are all in good health at least. Speaking of which, how is your broken leg? You must not put pressure on it or I will come to Paris on the next diligence to wring your ears, young man._ ’ 

Bahorel laughs as he folds the letter and puts it away carefully, ‘She sends her love to you too, Feuilly. Prouvaire left the chicken coop open the last time he visited causing all the chickens to wander to the nearby farm. She is still annoyed with him but sends her love all the same and requests more poetry. She says the verses make the children fall asleep.’ 

Prouvaire glares at Bahorel, whose mouth twitches under his beard with a satisfied look. Bahorel has paid back Jean Pouvaire for his insolent poem written entirely in Medieval verse in which he caricatures Bahorel and has two mentions of his gracefully moving posterior as he walks and sighs over an abandoned gothic building.

Feuilly looks down and smooths out the creases in his painter’s apron, he sings softly to himself, a little ditty he has picked up from the countryside and Prouvaire follows it on his hurdy gurdy. When the songs have run out, he turns the pages of his book on Polish History to a carefully marked page and reads it to Bahorel who listens with deep interest, asking thoughtful questions. Prouvaire steps outside on the balcony to gaze at the moonlight in admiration, trying to capture fleeting beauty into words, to distill its softness and fairy-like quality for use when he feels melancholy and out of sync with the city and himself. 

The geraniums on the windowsill grow despite the harsh city life and Prouvaire’s attempts at gardening which tend to follow a Romantic bend rather than any practical notions of plant keeping. Prouvaire’s chief concern is with the flowers’ feelings and he sings to them often. The geraniums might be musically inclined, Prouvaire has considered, for they stubbornly keep flowering. 

Feuilly thinks of himself as those geraniums, growing wherever he can find a little kindness, a little family and always facing the light.


	5. Chapter 5

**December 1826**

There is a knock on the door, three gentle raps and then silence. Feuilly is the only one at home, Bahorel and Prouvaire are out carousing, they have mentioned a gathering of the Cenacle in Madame P-'s salon despite the slowly swirling snow visible from the window. Prouvaire and Bahorel’s descriptions of the activities of the Cenacle have so far involved punch drinking, poetry reading and orgies. Feuilly only shakes his head and laughs at the things they have related, which have included everything from the fantastical to the ordinary. 

He is nevertheless happy for some peace and quiet and after dinner is settling into finishing some work on the pamphlet for the Mutual Aid Society. 

He is not exactly expecting visitors but he is acquainted with several people in their building and they sometimes drop by. Only yesterday the three of them had a meeting with the Polish women in Feuilly's atelier: Mademoiselle Dubicki, Madame Janowski and Madame Wójcik, to discuss how to help those who were out of work and living in squalid circumstances. 

‘Is La Liberte ou La Mort Bahorel at home?’

Feuilly takes a moment to place the voice. It is the new lodger from downstairs. A medical student newly arrived in Paris.

‘Gabriel Combeferre.’ the student introduces himself, ‘I found Bahorel through his correspondences with the Saint-Simonians. I wished to discuss the ideas further with him and exchange books. I have finished the one I borrowed and he has one of mine.’

Feuilly explains that Bahorel is not presently at home, but that he will be happy to hear more from their new neighbour.

Combeferre’s gaze alights on a brilliantly coloured fan depicting a revolutionary scene which occupies most of the table where Feuilly is working.

‘I have been working on colouring this one on my own time. I am a fanmaker, a fan painter.’

Combeferre admires the colours and the detail of the scene depicting the allegory of the Revolution of '89. The work seems to be exquisitely beautiful despite the sombre theme.

He runs a light hand over the etching and its colouring, the scene is vivid and jumps in front of his eyes, the guillotine, the execution of Louis XVI. The sticks are made of ivory.

‘This is a marvel.’ He finally speaks, ‘I did not know you were a fan maker of such quality.’

Feuilly smiles, ‘I did not make the entire piece. This is a work of many hands and many hours of toil. I am merely colouring the piece.’

Combeferre does not know what to say, he is drawn to the beauty of the violence depicted even as his soul trembles inwardly at the prospect of killing a fellow man.

‘It feels wrong to say that this piece has beauty, I do not know whether destruction should be beautiful.’

‘Shouldn’t it?’ Feuilly smiles gesturing to his companion to sit beside him, ‘Violence has been depicted favourably in many paintings. Artemisia Gentileschi, one of the foremost women painters of 17th Century Italy, painted Judith beheading Holofernes, it is quite violent and quite powerful. Art has always dealt with violence.’

Combeferre agrees, he is not thinking of paintings, he has appreciated several paintings depicting death and destruction, but some part of him has constantly struggled to think of civilization in those terms. ‘Destruction of the fields does not yield flowers,’ he thinks of his hometown and its mountains, and how it would greatly sadden him to lose the fields of flowers that he was fond of, to an apocalypse. He wants the surety that the violent overthrow of Caesar will not lead to civil wars, the thought of France attacking itself makes him weep. 

‘I do know that widow Auverny’s child died painfully because she could not afford bread to feed him, is that not a destruction carried out by the state, and why must the workers not respond in kind then? Why are we expected to take the blows patiently on our cheeks?’

‘May I?’ Combeferre picks up the pamphlets of the Mutual Aid Society and reads them. The pamphlet talks of ten hour workdays- a marked improvement from the present thirteen hours, more paid leave and chances of education. It delights Combeferre to find another on similar wavelengths as him.

‘The power that is derived from breaking things down, may be used to make the machinery of the present systems grind to a halt. Build new tools and machinery, plant new gardens for generations of children to come.’ The look on Feuilly’s face is pained, as he thinks of his childhood, ‘Too many children work in factories or ateliers. They are exposed to injuries and long hours. We are killing our children.’

‘I shudder from putting violence to use, letting it grow as a monstrous hydra and consume any progress in its jaws. I am training to be a doctor, and my ideas bend in that direction. How can I not weep at the destruction of life when I have sworn an oath to protect it? There have to be answers to this problem, I want to dedicate myself to finding them.’

‘As do I,’ Feuilly’s thin hands move over the guillotine on the fan which is framed with light, ‘But I do not give up the possibility that ploughing the fields deeply to uproot the roots of the old systems, even razing them completely, produces an effect. It is a poor comfort for the people of Poland, to witness the destruction of their motherland, and to be told to wait and hope, just as it would be for me if France were threatened. Who am I if not one of France’s sons?’ He turns to face Combeferre, ‘Monsieur Combeferre, do you have a mother?’

Combeferre is taken aback by the question, his face shows surprise, ‘Yes, yes of course. She worked hard to send me to Paris and to medical school.’

‘I have none.’ Feuilly says wistfully, ‘I have adopted my motherland as a mother and I do not wish to see my mother or anyone else’s mother treated cruelly and to stand by and do nothing.’

Combeferre places his hand on Feuilly’s shoulders for a brief moment and expresses his wish of helping the migrant community Feuilly knows and of providing children with education. 

‘This is my real purpose in coming, I wish to be a part of the Society for Universal Education for Children.’ he pulls out a creased pamphlet from his pocket, ‘This is one of yours, I recognise the drawing as being your hand.’

Combeferre does not know if his own hands are suited to carrying out delicate life saving operations as a first year medical student full of ideas of revolutionising medicine and surgery. Science and progress are connected in his mind but he does not deny the possibility of the supernatural, of miracles, even if he himself cannot completely bring himself to believe in God. There have to be multiple ways of arriving at progress; his heart still insists on believing that ‘the good must be innocent’.

Combeferre opens the pocket watch and glances at the time. The clock on the mantelpiece is broken, Prouvaire keeps it out of sentiment and will not be persuaded to part from it. 

He moves to shake Feuilly’s hand, and lingers. Warmth and enthusiasm radiates from the painter. Combeferre feels drawn to his friendship, out of a genuine desire to hear his ideas. The painting on the fan continues to haunt him with its grotesque beauty, at once sublime in its simplicity.

In the morning Feuilly finds Bahorel and Prouvaire dressed in costumes from books he does not recognize, Prouvaire is decked in blue coat with a yellow waistcoat underneath and Bahorel looks dashing in a cape carrying a sword in a hilt. There is a slight hint of opium around them too, Feuilly observes. They have returned from their excursions. He will hear of their adventures in the evening once he returns from the atelier. Combeferre has promised to be there too so that they can work on setting up classes for children. Feuilly enjoys talking to him, perhaps they can continue to work towards planting fields, building cities and even nation states too. 

This will be my legacy, Feuilly thinks as he walks by the Jardin des Plantes and smiles at the flowers who nod towards him in the breeze. 


	6. Chapter 6

**March 1827**

The door of the atelier swings open and a young gentleman who has his hat tucked under his arm and a playful smile on his lips enters. Madame Wójcik starts smiling as Flora Edmound who is also engaged in embroidering the corners of one of the fans nudges her and Sylvie Voilquin nearly drops the fan she is working on. 

The young man bows in turn to all the women. He has been visiting this atelier for some weeks and is a familiar sight. They benefit from his knowledge of muslin and music, a rare talent in a young man and which he attributes to having grown up with an accomplished older sister. Flora is delighted that he stops by her workbench and asks about her brother who is in the army. The young ladies in their break share gossip with the gentleman who listens attentively, exclaiming and shaking his head at the right moments as befits the stories. 

Feuilly laughs quietly as Sylvie whispers to him that he is in danger of falling from his place as everyone’s favourite in the atelier because of the new young man. He knows the young man well, or at least as well as can be expected in the space of three weeks that he has been sharing lodgings with him and Lesgles. It should be more surprising that the young man knows everyone in Feuilly’s circle but it is not, somehow that comes with knowing Courfeyrac. 

Do-not-call-me-de-Courfeyrac grins as he hears the whisper, for it is he, Lesgles’ law school friend, Prouvaire and Bahorel’s occasional partner in sartorial fashion adventures which somehow end up involving skulls, and a man of disrepute by his own admissions though Feuilly does not believe the last part, he has always found Courfeyrac charming and honest. He does know that Courfeyrac is writing swashbuckling plays in his free time and perusing romance novels instead of sitting for his exams. The plays have even brought him some money though it is hard to be certain whether he has achieved success. Success! Courfeyrac always makes a face at the dull word, his professors seem to bring it up too often when discussing case studies of prosecutors winning cases against the poor workers and destitute widows, and changes the subject. 

‘I shall have to challenge Feuilly to a duel, naturally.’ Courfeyrac says, trying desperately not to laugh, even he cannot keep up the farce for much longer. 

Later as they walk the Parisian streets, Feuilly is whistling a tune he has picked up at the atelier, a strain from a new Polish waltz which Courfeyrac is attempting to follow. Courfeyrac is glad for the warm sunshine and the pleasant air, it suits his temperament and he walks with a verve in his step. 

Outside in the crisp air he admits the real purpose for his visit, ‘Bahorel has entrusted me with a job and I thought, what better companion than Feuilly for my adventures.’

Courfeyrac swings his cane around, and raises his hat for Mademoiselle Georges passing by in a fiacre on her way to a rehearsal for one of her plays at the Comedie Francaise. 

‘Monsieur Bourdon, do not raise your eyebrows up to the heavens or they will fall off. Combeferre is away, there has been a sudden funeral in his family that he has to attend to. Bahorel and Prouvaire have been dealing with a mouchard, though it might also be a monarchist editor who annoyed them or a neoclassicist, I lost count- all I know is that they will be at the Père Lachaise tonight, I did not ask for further details which is probably wise for I do not wish to be part of any grave-digging misadventures. Our Aquila, the venerable Bossuet with his orations, is cheering up Joly whose four ailes are looking a bit limp or possibly playing billiards with him. I do not know where Grantaire is since I saw him yesterday, but it is so very easy to lose a Grantaire and have them turn up in unexpected places. As for me, I need an opportunity to meet Mademoiselle Georges after her play tomorrow when she will be amenable to flirtations by yours truly, which is why we must carry out this job tonight.’ 

Feuilly smiles, ‘Of course I am prepared, what is the job?’ 

‘Pardieu! I forgot, it would be better to be armed just in case, even if I am expecting little trouble in shifting weapons. Do you have something you can carry for protection?’

Feuilly nods, there is a pistol he uses, though he admits it is out of cartridges. He has not had a chance to make new ones since the last riot.

In their stroll, they pass by Duvellroys (Courfeyrac exclaims that he will never buy fans from that establishment, only from Feuilly’s atelier and Feuilly laughs) and across a quaint old clothes shop. Courfeyrac’s keen eyes pick out a coat, rarely used, which is being sold for twenty sous. As someone who goes through quite a few coats during his several engagements, he is always on the lookout for bargains. Feuilly’s attention lingers on a sword that has been hanging in the shop. 

The shop owner notices Feuilly’s gaze, ‘A servant of a rich gentleman whose name escapes me, ah….Monsieur G-, that's it, from 6 Rue des Filles du Calvaire, brought the sword to me only last week. The sword will need to be sharpened and cleaned, otherwise it is in good condition. It used to belong to a soldier who fought in the Napoleonic wars and earned much glory. I will sell it to you for five francs. Three if you pay me now.’

Feuilly does concede the fact that the sword would work well with a little bit of polishing. He wonders about the man who has had to part with such a sword.

Courfeyrac looks at Feuilly thoughtfully, as he leans on his cane, ‘A sword will do in the absence of cartridges, I can give you some basic lessons. You do owe me a duel, Monsieur Bourdon. And I will be happy to share the techniques I have learned from my----’

Courfeyrac falls silent abruptly, not inclined to hash out his recent disagreement with his father, and Feuilly notices the pause and his awkwardness before Courfeyrac changes the subject. Courfeyrac gets along with his father very well, he is also quick to get into and out of arguments with him and his grandfather and prefers not to talk about domestic matters. Feuilly has heard about the dashing Marquis de Courfeyrac, Courfeyrac’s grandfather, who married a former slave in Saint-Domingue, from Courfeyrac himself, only once. 

He himself does not know how to talk of families, the joiners he knows who become compagnons, had talked about Mother Houses for the workers. Compagnon is a word that he has become fond of, he wonders if one might not stretch the word to include more and more people to break bread with. He has become used to talking of families in the abstract. Of Nations. Of states. He supposes that is what a Nation is, and he knows that Combeferre has also expounded on this much better than he can. A community where we are each responsible for the others’ welfare. He wants everyone to have a nation to belong to and the right to not be invaded. 

Courfeyrac links his arms into Feuilly’s as they near the Latin Quarter, Feuilly has kept the sword dangling by his side. The chance of learning how to use it thrills and terrifies him. 

‘I only have a sword cane, you will be the envy of the atelier once I relate how you fought the dastardly bandits who waylaid us on our journey tonight.’ 

‘I do not care for such fictions.’ 

‘Neither do I, which is why I only read and write about them.’ Courfeyrac grins and fidgets with his cravat before becoming serious, ‘Truth then, I have need of your company and a desire to make up for some of my comments about having to care about the Kings of Poland and their successions last week. I have been listening to Madame Wójcik’s stories and I am chastened and humbled to learn that there are many ordinary heroic people in that worthy nation whose lives do not form a part of history books, whose struggles we do not know about, who pass by unnoticed.’ 

‘You still have to pay for your comments, Monsieur de Courfeyrac. Do not suppose that you will get off so lightly.’ 

Courfeyrac silences the fanmaker with a kiss on the cheek which catches him off guard, ‘Consider this part of the payment, and I shall have to think of a penalty for you for calling me Monsieur de Courfeyrac.’

Feuilly does not know how to respond, this is not an argument that he has a ready rebuttal to, a hint of blush remains visible on his cheeks and becomes more prominent as they reach their lodgings and prepare for the late night excursion. The reddish tint is reflected on the horizon as well, as the sun goes down.


	7. Chapter 7

**June 1827**

Feuilly takes time off from his atelier one day to drop off some of his artwork for the newspaper which he contributes to, with his growing network of friends. They have changed printers, or rather expanded their network to avoid being arrested more than is necessary. A recent police report after their arrests calls them all dangerous Republicans armed with daggers, even though they have not formed a group as yet. 

Joly and Lesgles bring Grantaire along with them most times, though it would be more accurate to say that Grantaire cannot stay away. 

‘And sodomists,’ Grantaire points out, kissing Lesgles on the cheek and being swatted away playfully by him. The police report amuses him far too much. 

‘Dangerous ones,’ Bahorel’s eyes shine gleefully, ‘Well, we must live up to the expectations, obviously, and print more pamphlets and bring more daggers to the next riot.’

Together they often joke about ‘Society for Universal Education of Children’ being the cover for their activities, for it is true in a sense. 

Feuilly is nervous heading to a new printer with his work, he wonders if the new printers will make a fuss about their activities. He turns into Boulevard Saint Germain and stops at the Enjolras and Sons’ printshop. There is a sign beside the door and a bell rings softly as he walks in. 

It takes a while for the Master Printer to appear since he is busy working the press. The sound of the printers mingles with the sound of chatter from the workers and creates an orchestra that Feuilly likes the sound of. 

‘Can I help you?’ a voice speaks. It is not the Master Printer but a young apprentice, who bears a family resemblance to him. He does not remember the Master Printer having talked about a son, therefore this must be the nephew from Le Puys that the Uncle talks about. 

Already the young man seems older than his years which cannot be more than one and twenty, his face has that feminine look of a young boy but his speech carries a gravity which lends it at once an enchanting and commanding quality. His hair curls in ringlets of pale blond that seem to encircle him in a halo. 

‘In here if you please?’ young Enjolras directs Feuilly to a smaller room inside the shop where they can talk without being overheard. ‘My name is Michel Enjolras, I am Master Enjolras’ nephew.’ 

‘Feuilly,’ Feuilly smiles, getting up and extending his hand. 

-

In the days that follow, Enjolras becomes an integral part of their society. New and old friends alike have come to rely heavily on Enjolras’ keen working knowledge of planning riots and he guides them as a captain of a ship through constant turbulences. Feuilly feels drawn to Enjolras’ inspired speech, his way of glancing at his own hands when he is unsure of a point during an argument with Combeferre who has been attending meetings as well. 

Enjolras’ own education has been primarily haphazard and self motivated, just as much as Feuilly’s had been. He has read several books while setting type and binding them during his apprenticeship, first in Le Puys and then in Paris, though working for his family’s business has afforded him more time to focus on reading. His chief preoccupation in his native town was being involved with Courgourde d'Aix, and his political commitments continue with an increased fervor in Paris. 

There is in him a certain melancholy, not quite like Prouvaire’s, Feuilly thinks, but something different that he cannot pinpoint. He has his gaze always fixed on the ideal, which makes Feuilly believe in it as a concrete reality instead of an abstract idea that he has always hoped for and found out of reach. He feels that Enjolras can also read fortunes but instead of one man’s hand creases he will read the fortune of a country, a people. 

Feuilly smiles at these thoughts, seated as he is near Enjolras as he argues philosophy with Combeferre during one of their meetings at Musain. To all appearances he is sketching a political cartoon. In reality he cannot help glance at Enjolras from time to time and see his gaze returned with admiration. 

Enjolras has been talking about a political question and is of the view that they should at present focus on France and its struggles, leaving the question of France’s neighbours for later. Feuilly in turn brings up the struggles in Poland, the partitions, the way that France’s struggles mirror its neighbours- Poland requires their help, just as Polish citizens have helped France in her hour of need. He speaks too passionately of Greece's plunder by Ottomans since 1821, and of Italy and their need for self determination. 

‘France is not alone in struggling for a Republic, the neighbours’ concerns are ours too. Polish people are without a state, they do not belong anywhere, the partitions took away their culture, their identity.’ 

Feuilly likens the countries to a body working in harmony and pain in one part affecting the others. 

He is afraid that somehow he has spoken too harshly, accused Enjolras too unjustly of caring only for France and for the French language, that he will no longer wish to be friends. He glances at Enjolras’ hands, they appear as finely carved sculptures even though one of his fingers is covered with printer’s ink and his hair is slightly tousled from wearing the printer’s cap all day. There is at once a feeling of looking at sheer marble as his gaze lingers on Enjolras’ face, though marbles do not laugh at their own awkward jokes, nor are they warm to the touch and Enjolras is both. 

Enjolras takes Feuilly’s hands in his under the table and Feuilly relaxes. ‘You correct me too, Feuilly, just as Combeferre does. I value your friendship just as much.’

There is something in Enjolras’ tone that suggests that he wants to spend hours in discussions with Feuilly just to hear him speak and laugh, that he wants to puzzle him out, to sketch in his untrained hand, the way Feuilly looks in the dazzling sunlight with his animated form talking about Greek Revolution with Courfeyrac. He would have praised Feuilly more profusely, had Feuilly not blushed and deflected the words. 

Feuilly does not want to be made into an altar to be worshipped- Prouvaire makes one for all of his dead plants, and Enjolras instinctively knows that neither does he. He will be the defender of Liberty and its friend till the end. Someone else can do this work just as well. It is not extraordinary that they toil away to bring light to people kept in darkness, it is only what needs to be done. 

Feuilly smiles. Jehan Prouvaire has been an enigma and sometimes still is, but he can read Enjolras and his thoughts clearly. There is no reason for any formality between them. 

Feuilly _‘s_ thoughts drift back to families and to Grenoble. He has not thought of Jean- Francois Martin and his wife much these past years but he does now fondly, and of families created by a group of people coming together in all their messiness, sustained by love and a sense of justice. 

He sees Bossuet and Joly engage in bawdy jokes with Grantaire across the table, he listens to Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Prouvaire arguing theatre, he places his hands in Enjolras’ as they both enjoy the sallies exchanged back and forth, Enjolras even attempts a weak pun and beams proudly at the reaction it elicits from his friends faces. Feuilly's heart fills with warmth at the friends gathered around him and being able to call them all as his family, his compagnons. 

In this moment, Feuilly turns towards the window and looks at the summer sunset splashing its warm colours across the sky and it feels like an illumination heralding their dreams. 

**Author's Note:**

> A very very heartfelt thank you to my Beta readers: Sam/Occassionallylost and Pilferingapples without whom this fic would not be the way it is. 
> 
> Some notes about the fic:
> 
> Jacques Etienne Bede was a real person. He started the Mutual Aid Society for chair turners in the 1820s. I borrowed from his and Agricol Perdiguer's life for some of Feuilly's backstory. More about them and their lives can be found in The French Worker: Autobiographies from Early Industrial Era by Mark Traugott, which is excellent and also available on Google Books.  
> https://books.google.com.pk/books?id=hSExoRM2wmoC&pg=PA47&hl=fr&source=gbs_toc_r&cad=4#v=onepage&q&f=false
> 
> As far as I can tell, foundling hospitals/orphanages sent children to apprentice with a master or artisan or to nearby farms when they were around 13 years old, from 1850 onwards, though I cannot be sure that this was always the case before 1850s. From: Abandoned Children: Foundlings and Child Welfare in Nineteenth-Century France. Also on google books https://books.google.com.pk/books?id=jgCxWmEmuDUC&pg=PA29&source=gbs_toc_r&cad=4#v=onepage&q&f=false
> 
> Also I used Barricades by Jill Harson as a source for the workers' involvement in 1830s politics


End file.
